


I’m the Touch You Crave

by kentucka



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Eskel Has Self-Esteem Issues (The Witcher), M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Timeline What Timeline, Title from a The Amazing Devil Song, Touch-Starved Eskel (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25517185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: For a while, Eskel is kept company on the Path by a certain flirtatious bard, whom he is quite smitten with. Yet when Jaskier offers his assistance with a minor wound, Eskel is painfully reminded of all the reasons he cannot allow anything to happen.Jaskier is quick to explain why he's being dumb.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 357





	I’m the Touch You Crave

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read the books or played the video games. All of Eskel comes from fandom osmosis, so I apologize for anything that seems off. Basically I blame all the other amazing authors for making me fall in love with this sweetheart.
> 
> TW: for a hot minute there, Eskel thinks Jaskier's going to cheat on Geralt. Nothing could be further from the truth, and it is cleared up before the action starts.
> 
> It is not relevant to the story, but I imagine the voice in Eskel's head sounds like Lambert.
> 
> Title from The Amazing Devil's _That Unwanted Animal_.
> 
> *
> 
> I simply had a craving to write some seriously touch-starved Eskel, getting all the petting and loving he deserves from a delighted, handsy bard. Enjoy.

“I could help bandage that.” Jaskier is eager, already reaches out for his injured left flank but stops short. Always stops, Eskel noticed, unless he has been given permission of some sort - even if it was only a silent meeting of the eyes. It is the reason Eskel has always felt comfortable around the exuberant bard.

But today Eskel has… reservations. His nod, when it comes, is a moment too late.

Jaskier’s eyes narrow. “Oh. You don’t  _ actually  _ want me to.” It’s flat, a statement rather than a question despite the shock coloring his voice. He takes a half-step backwards. “I’m sorry.”

Like he did something  _ wrong. _ It wrenches Eskel’s heart.

“Jaskier, it’s—” He hesitates again. He wants to correct Jaskier, to insist that he would love Jaskier’s help, because he  _ does. _

Receiving aid on the Path is such a rare treat, and he enjoys it when Jaskier’s fluttery attention is uncharacteristically focused on him. Like it usually only ever is on Geralt. But therein lies the problem. Half the problem.

The thing is, Eskel doesn’t like to lie, even by omission.

He certainly has gained Jaskier’s undivided attention. The bright blue eyes have dimmed a bit, but on the heels of the hurt at being rebuffed comes Jaskier’s concern. His emotions run the zigzag course of a hunted hare, and Eskel often wonders how this does not exhaust him.

But now concern it is, and with a frown, Jaskier puzzles over him. Eskel shifts his weight, glances off to the right into the dark depths of the cave serving as tonight's lodging. The scrutiny is uncomfortable; Jaskier often sees way too much for his own good. Only natural, after having spent decades with a taciturn witcher of his own who’d rather face Old Speartip again than voice his emotions. How else would they have ever gotten their acts together.

“You know, with Geralt I would expect some growling about not needing anyone to take care of his injuries. Or insults to my artful bandaging. But you’re not him.” He surprises Eskel with a playful grin, a coy glance through his lashes. “Not quite as proud or stubborn. I know it’s not the pain you’re worried about, so… what is it, Eskel?”

Just hearing his name, so soft and patient _ , _ makes Eskel’s pulse pick up; he imagines he can feel the blood flow between his fingertips to the same beat, but it’s still the constant sluggish trickle from a nicked vein, nothing more. He’s fine. He can tend to the clawmark on his abdomen by himself - has done so for a century. But that’s not in question here.

No, the question is, why can he not abide the thought of Jaskier touching him with that same softness and patience?

He rubs knuckles over his right temple, ducks his head. How does he explain that, between being a witcher - an aberration in most eyes - and the angry-looking facial scars… he is hideous. Nobody wants that. Nobody should be forced to put up with it.

It quickly became easier to  _ not want, _ to stop asking, instead of being rejected in fear and disgust more often than not, even paid company recoiling when he pushed his hood back from his face.

Here, confronted with Jaskier’s open mind and big heart, the craving resurfaces with a strength that scares Eskel. It threatens to sweep him away in its torrent. He  _ wants,  _ but it might kill him.

“I haven’t,” he starts, but there’s a tightness in his throat, like a piece of bread is stuck in it. He turns away from Jaskier, swallows around it. He is pathetic.

“Hey, hey,” Jaskier soothes, hovers a hand over his shoulder.

Eskel almost shrinks away, but when he doesn’t, it’s just a slight weight on the armor, mostly symbolic. He can handle that. There is no push to make him face Jaskier again; he gets to keep his escape.

“I’ll try to make this easy,” Jaskier continues. “Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.”

Eskel does. As it shudders through him, he scolds himself. How laughable, panicking at the idea of Jaskier taking off his armor when he wouldn’t blink at a Hym.

As if sensing that he needs to distract Eskel from spiralling thoughts, Jaskier speaks again. “On principle, do you mind me helping?”

It makes Eskel smile despite it all. “No, I don’t mind.” The bard’s lute-trained fingers are deft and capable; since he learned the mechanics of wound care he’s become quite adept at it. Travelling with witchers certainly keeps him in practice.

“Good,” Jaskier says, and he sounds so proud. Not of his skills being appreciated, but proud of  _ Eskel. _

Eskel swallows hard.

“Is it the idea of taking your armor off in an unfamiliar place?”

The question is oddly specific, oddly relevant to a witcher’s or a soldier’s mindset, to be coming from a man whose toughest defenses are a winter coat and his ability to hear compliments even in abuse. Eskel looks back over his left shoulder, but if there is a story, Jaskier does not show it. Eskel shakes his head.

With an eyebrow wriggle, Jaskier continues, “Are you going shy on me?”

No, he is not. Jaskier knows from experience that the wolf witchers have little shame. But he also dreads being naked in front of Jaskier, and isn’t that essentially the same?

It’s that pause again, that Jaskier reads as clear as if Eskel had spoken. “I hope by now we’ve established that your scars—”

Eskel’s already shaking his head, vehemently, like it would stop the words that are still so hard to hear. As if anything ever manages to shut Jaskier up.

Instead the voice just grows louder, insistent.  _ “None _ of your scars, they do not make monsters of you. Or make you any less beautiful.” Jaskier has stepped up closer behind him, voice next to Eskel’s ear.

The words make him want to flinch away like he used to. But today they push heat behind his eyes, curl around his ribs warm and tight; Jaskier’s earnestness is terrible and wonderful. Eskel wants to hear  _ more _ of it. Wishes the words to be magic so they simply  _ are  _ the truth and he can stop worrying about it.

He’s still supposed to give an answer, so Eskel forces himself to nod, to be as honest as he can. “I want to— to believe that.”

He cannot see Jaskier’s face, but the sad smile is in the voice. “Oh Eskel. Lovely, kind Eskel.” The compliment makes goosebumps rise on Eskel’s neck. “I will happily prove it in any way you let me.”

It’s such a typical, suggestive, bardling thing to say that Eskel can’t help but snort. “What about Geralt?” he teases back. Tries to call Jaskier’s bluff. His brother-in-arms may not be here to witness the flirtation, but Jaskier knows a witcher’s sense of smell better than that.

“Oh, he’d be glad to prove it much the same,” Jaskier grins and pushes his nose into the short hairs at the back of Eskel’s head.

“No!” He staggers forward, heart in his throat. Jaskier’s hand slips from his shoulder. Eskel had not meant to move; it had been a reflex to a barely formed notion. Eskel’s free fist clenches.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says again, and he does sound truly sorry. Not like he’s humoring Eskel. “I said I’d make this easier, but I haven’t at all, have I?”

The question is rhetorical, but there Eskel has gone and made Jaskier sad  _ again. _ He truly is a most vile creature. He needs to fix this.

_ Just tell him. Easy-peasy. _

“It’s not that. Not the scars. Not  _ just—” _ Eskel’s words stumble over themselves.

As Jaskier put it, he is not Geralt. Why does he have such trouble being his normal forthright self?

_ Too much to lose. _

Giving Jaskier his unmarked left profile, a safety-net for himself still, he grits his teeth against the memories of strangers’ hands quickly snatched back, of horror-wide eyes. “It is so many things at once, like tightly woven fabric, that it is hard to clearly distinguish the individual threads anymore,” Eskel admits.

The bard only looks delighted at the poetic turn of phrase, and waits.

“I haven’t let anyone...” No, before that. Before  _ not wanting _ became a shield against repulsion. Eskel trails off, inhales deeply again. It doesn’t fortify his voice much. “Nobody has touched me in a very long time.” It sounds so pitiful out loud that he almost chokes.

Jaskier’s mouth goes slack, his eyes wide. “You mean— that— the problem is touch itself?” he asks, hesitant in a way the outgoing bard rarely is.

“Yes,” Eskel finally manages. It is harrowing, but he feels lighter for it.

“You are not weak to want it,” Jaskier quickly chases away the niggling self-doubt that tries to convince Eskel of the exact opposite. “Most everybody wants it.” _Even he who loudly claims he doesn't need it,_ is heavily implied.

“And even when they did, it frequently became…”

When Eskel can’t quite find the right word, Jaskier offers, like he knew all along: “Too much? Overwhelming? Pushing out all other sense and sensible thought?”

Eskel inclines his head. Jaskier draws back, causing dread to surge instantly; he wants to apologize. But then Jaskier holds out the bandages he pulled from their bags.

“You should really look after that wound of yours now. Just because you would survive it doesn’t mean you need to suffer it becoming infected.”

Eskel’s chest aches. He wasn’t lying when he said he trusted Jaskier to help.  _ Wanted _ Jaskier to help. He keeps his scarred face angled away mostly out of habit as he takes the offered bandages. Jaskier doesn’t give them up immediately, catches Eskel’s gaze.

“Come to me, after. I’d be honored if you let me show you some of that proof.” It sounds far less indecent, this time, just sweet.

Eskel nods.

*

Eskel does not put his shirt back on. It seems counterproductive to what Jaskier apparently has planned, having ogled Eskel unsubtly for the entire duration. Maybe even to Eskel’s benefit mostly, as additional  _ evidence. _

They sit close to the fire at the mouth of the cave, soaking up the warmth on an otherwise chilly autumn night.

He doesn’t know what to expect, but when he sits down opposite Jaskier on their pushed-together bedrolls, the bard simply finishes his song mid-chorus with four impromptu harmonic chords, and puts his lute away.

“I liked that song,” Eskel says, because it is true. He will miss Jaskier’s singing when he’s back on the Path on his own.

The bard puffs up, grins widely. “Why thank you! That’s why you’re my favorite.”

Eskel chuckles ruefully. “I’m not.” He wonders what Geralt is thinking of all of this.

Jaskier hums, long and thoughtful, then he announces, “It’s a tie,” throwing in a cheeky wink for good measure.

The bad thing is— Eskel ducks his head, heart constricting painfully. The bad thing is, he actually believes Jaskier. It’s a recipe for disaster. He wants to memorize every second they are stealing here.

“Come on, give me your hand,” Jaskier says after a pause, with fondness in his eyes and in his voice. He clearly understands what is going through Eskel’s mind, and enjoys flustering him.

As bid, Eskel places a hand, palm up, on top of Jaskier’s outstretched one. It is just pressure and warmth. The proximity of Jaskier is still more distracting, rose and wood wafting across, spicing up around the edges.

With the soft cadence of a secret shared, Jaskier starts talking. “I want you to know that, no matter what happens, it is all right.”

Eskel frowns. He wants to assure Jaskier that he can control himself. But like the brat he is, Jaskier chooses that instant to run his fingertips, feather-light, down the inside of his forearm. With the slight tickle, the words die on Eskel’s tongue.

Jaskier keeps repeating the gesture, starting at the elbow, putting on more pressure, using more of his palm. “Overwhelming can be okay. Too much can be amazing. Just tell me to stop when it stops feeling good.”

Already Eskel has difficulty taking in the words, just hears their quiet ebb and flow. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from where their skin touches, and after a dozen repeats, his chest is heaving with too-fast breaths and the campfire almost blinds him.

“Eskel,” Jaskier breathes, awed.

He cuts off the low whine he just now realized he was making.

“Still good?” Jaskier asks.

Eskel doesn’t know how to answer that. It’s too much by far, the sensations continuing to tingle their way up his body long after Jaskier has stopped, leaving barely the space for another thought. The rasping drag along his arm is followed by a blazing light, a taste of salt on his tongue. He wants to sink into it, does not want it to ever end. He looks at Jaskier, whose eyes widen at whatever is written across Eskel’s face.

“Yeah, okay.” He switches it up a bit, fingers tracing further down over his palm, along his curled fingers until their very tips.

Four barest points of contact. The feeling lances through Eskel, through lungs and heart, rips a moan out of him that he could not have held back if he’d tried.

It takes a few (racing, human-fast) heartbeats, until the sound registers in Eskel’s ears. Registers as  _ his own  _ sound. “Wait!” He wrenches his hand back, horrified. He lost all control. Unforgivable!

“You’re okay.” Jaskier has pulled back as well, carefully does not touch Eskel at all, but he is still so close. “Remember? I said it before. It’s all right if it becomes overwhelming.”

Eskel’s mind is still trying to catch up, wild with the very real reminder how it  _ feels _ to lose himself. How dangerous. Especially with Jaskier. How, in the name of the Spheres, did this peacock of a bard manage to capture the affections of not one, but two witchers? Damn his luck, but Geralt has met him first, has staked a claim. Jaskier has chosen him in return. Eskel has no right to jeopardize that relationship, not for his selfish and salacious reasons.

Desperate and much too loud, he demands, “What are we doing here?”

At that, Jaskier finally leans back out of his space. Eskel takes deep breaths of musty cave air, Jaskier’s excitement flaking off. “Well,” he says, conversationally. “I am here to offer you the enjoyment of touch, without any humiliation over how it might affect you.”

“Your touch is not mine to enjoy!” It bursts out of him, and while yes, it is the truth, he didn’t mean to yell it at Jaskier as if it was  _ his  _ fault. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” Eskel pleads before Jaskier’s face can fully morph through the sting into (rightful) anger.

He buries his face in his hands, rakes his fingers through the hair at the top of his head and  _ pulls. _ The burn cuts through the despair, calms his mind.

Jaskier watches him warily.

“What I meant,” Eskel says gently. He reaches out, but does not actually settle his hands anywhere on Jaskier’s body. He hopes it is enough. “You want to do me a favor, and I love you for it, my friend. But I cannot relax, and let myself… drown in all this… sensation. Just the once.”

He winces. It’s been a while since his last confession of the heart. To a romantic bard, he must sound like such a bumbling idiot.

Jaskier’s face does a complicated series of expressions; furrowed brows that suddenly rise, squinting eyes that widen, pinched lips that part, before he huffs disbelievingly. Distracted fingers comb the fringe off his forehead. “Eskel, darling, I expected you to wisen up to my courting a fair bit faster than Geralt. And yes, you can tell him that I just called him simple.”

That still doesn’t really explain anything?

Eskel’s confusion must have been obvious, because Jaskier smiles indulgently. He leans forward again, taking Eskel’s hands, slowly enough to give him a chance to retreat. Eskel doesn’t want to. He lets himself appreciate the tight clasp of fingers around his own, the comforting squeeze.

“Plain terms for my erudite witcher,” Jaskier teases without a hint of malice. Eskel smiles with him. “Geralt and I,” Jaskier says, putting even more emphasis on his following words, “ _we_ _agreed_ on offering you this. Whoever got the chance first.”

“You weren’t kidding, before.” Eskel had put it off as a joke, banter, an idle speculation. A fantasy at most. Not something the pair had discussed in seriousness.

Jaskier shakes his head. Pulls him in a little, until their foreheads touch.

Eyes closed, Eskel lets the remaining arguments and anxieties fizzle away. This is not a platonic offer that he unfairly takes advantage of. Not a stolen moment, or clandestine affair.

It takes a moment until his world rearranges itself into the new order. He could… he might actually… get to have this. “Even Geralt,” he shocks himself saying it out loud.

Against his forehead, Jaskier nods. “Especially Geralt.” He giggles a little, tilts his head until his nose smushes against Eskel’s cheekbone, a ghost of a kiss to the left corner of his mouth. “That man just needed expert uncorking, now his emotions are exploding all over the place like badly handled bottles of mead. You can thank me later.”

Eskel decidedly does  _ not _ thank Jaskier, he just groans at the obscene image in his head. Jaskier laughs at him, loud and happy.

He pulls back to stare, looks his fill of sky-blue eyes, floppy walnut hair, of a slowly maturing face, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth which betray that laughing is Jaskier’s favorite pastime. And Jaskier stares in return, tracing over Eskel’s features, his scars.

It is exhilarating, despite the voice in the back of his head still wondering how anyone could wish to look upon him for any length of time.

Their gazes meet and hold. “Gods, I love your eyes,” Jaskier breathes. When Eskel only raises an eyebrow in question, he continues, voice faint,  _ “Both _ of you, your golden eyes. It is always heady to watch a lover’s irises dilating to the thinnest rings in lust, but with your cat-like slitted pupils the effect is so much stronger.”

Eskel takes a deep, steadying breath. Inhales Jaskier’s scent, the rising hunger.

“Yep, like that, exactly,” Jaskier moans quietly. He lets go of Eskel, petting Eskel’s bare arm instead, stuttering over the occasional scar, gripping the bulge of his biceps.

As they wander on - wrapping around the knobs of his shoulders, moulding over muscles, thumbs skimming the sensitive sides of his neck - heat rushes up from within Eskel’s body, its roar in his ears. Or maybe that’s his own voice again. This time, he lets it happen. Dives into it. Jaskier is watching him intently, catalogues the gasps Eskel is helpless to stop.

“The gentlest and most generous man,” Jaskier is saying, and more which Eskel barely registers consciously, yet the words kick up the fever a notch. “Oh darling, so sweet and responsive.”

The hands are careful around the bandage over his torso, but the discomforts of the claw mark or his own straining erection are fast fading into the background. They are overlaid by the amazement on Jaskier’s face, the tickling, prickling fire left behind by his fingers as they map out his abdominal muscles, his ribs. By the musk of Jaskier’s lust, earth and salt, stronger than ever.

“By the Gods, to know that you are finally ours.”

It is a wave crashing against the Skelligan cliffs, and simultaneously the unstoppable steadiness of the tide creeping up the coastline. Eskel isn’t sure anymore which one is normal, and which borne of decades of abstinence. All he cares about is how it fills up his chest. Pushing into the touch when it threatens to leave him. How it is Jaskier’s touch, with Geralt’s permission; that it might soon be Geralt himself—

Eskel keens, finds his fingers rubbing into silky hair, and that’s the last sensation occurring to him as an orgasm seizes him unexpectedly.

He becomes aware again like that, fingers still wrapped around dark strands and pulling Jaskier close, taking some of his weight.

As he realizes what just happened, how little it took to set him off, coming in his pants like a teenager, he tries to pull away in shame. But Jaskier holds fast, murmurs, “No, love, please stay. My lovely, beautiful Eskel, it’s all right, remember? How did you get to be so amazing, my pretty witcher...”

Eskel flushes. He acts on impulse,  _ needing  _ the flood of words to stop. Scars cleaving into his mouth entirely forgotten, he tilts his head and then their lips are touching, shocking Jaskier mute. But nothing ever truly shuts up a bard. A second, maybe two, then he’s kissing back with ravenous force and a melodious hum. Eskel whimpers in the onslaught he brought upon himself. Jaskier presses him down and Eskel goes easily, reclining on the bedroll.

Still, still Jaskier obviously keeps some wit about himself, because he stays on hands and knees, careful not to touch any more of Eskel’s skin by accident. No, instead he does so with every intent of driving Eskel mad. He leans on one elbow and uses the other hand to smooth over Eskel’s chest again, up the sternum, skim a nipple, nudge his chin up for yet deeper kisses. Eskel’s brain has long shut off, body pliant to Jaskier’s direction and drifting after his every touch.

Jaskier’s taste keeps it all at bay, keeps it from being overwhelming.

Two hands wander up Eskel’s face, palming his cheeks. Then they shift around into his hair, fingernails scritching lightly up from Eskel’s neck to the top of his scalp. Jaskier grins self-satisfied at the deep shiver that races down Eskel’s body. He repeats it twice, three times, and places kisses along Eskel’s mouth where it dropped open, panting.

Eskel dares to touch in return. Could probably not stop himself, if he’s honest with himself; the need for more forms a pit in his stomach again. He quickly shoves off the unbuttoned doublet - Jaskier pulls his arms from it with practised ease, their mouths never disconnecting - and then pulls on the trouser lacing and Jaskier’s shirt until it comes free.

Jaskier leans back, straightens where he straddles one of Eskel’s thighs. “Gods, Eskel,” he says, and nothing else. But he watches as Eskel gathers the loose shirt and slips his hands underneath.

When his palms touch Jaskier’s skin, Eskel is not sure who of them moans louder. Jaskier’s body is lightly furred, an interesting texture as he strokes the short hairs in and against the growth. But Eskel has more control over the stop and start of the sensations, and so he can seek out spots that make Jaskier screw his eyes shut or moan his name. He lets his hands venture further, onto Jaskier’s back, encouraging him to rock his hips down and ride Eskel’s thigh.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes, falls forward again and catches himself on his elbows, loose shirt dragging over Eskel’s chest with every shove of his hips.

The tickle quickly becomes too distracting again, too loud in Eskel’s brain. “Kiss me,” he begs, and Jaskier’s right there.

“Sweet—” he says, and smothers the rest of his words against Eskel’s lips.

It’s more manageable like that, in a way that should not make any sense. Eskel does not try to parse through it. The spices of the wine Jaskier has drunk with dinner keep Eskel’s mind focused. And so he grabs harder, wiggles his fingers underneath the waistband of Jaskier’s trousers until they slip down, give him access to two nice round globes of ass that he can knead into, help Jaskier along with his rhythm as it starts to falter.

Jaskier inhales sharply. “You too.” Without looking, he makes quick work of the buttons on Eskel’s trousers, and wraps a fist over his cock, wet with the sticky mess he’d made of himself.

Until that moment, Eskel hadn’t realized he was hard... again? Or still? A moan punches out of him, world blinking out of existence, but then Jaskier’s tongue is back in his mouth, licking at his teeth and chasing him as Eskel tries to establish a sense of dominance. He thinks he hears Jaskier snickering at his efforts.

Eskel pushes his hands down Jaskier’s trousers further, fabric stretching and stitches groaning. He pulls, spreading Jaskier’s cheeks until he can rub a fingertip along the seam of his ass, a slow descent that warns Jaskier long before it happens. The bard whines in anticipation, breathing so hard he can no longer keep the kisses going.

The soft cotton sliding over Eskel’s nipples, the squeeze around his cockhead which instinct drives him to push into... Sensations flood Eskel, threaten to drown him, but it’s worth it when Jaskier yells as Eskel’s fingertip finally, finally pushes and catches on his rim. It’s dry, he won’t be able to do more than this, but Jaskier doesn’t need much more encouragement.

“Eskel, darling, Eskel,” he moans, hand pumping and twisting on Eskel’s cock with every rut downwards on Eskel’s thigh. “You too, love,” Jaskier repeats, and then smears his mouth wetly on Eskel’s right cheek.

Eskel jerks, hiccups a breath, bows on the bedroll and lifts Jaskier along. Then he knows nothing but white static.

They’re both gulping air, breaths rushing in and out against each other’s ears. Eskel is covered in bard: his warmth, his weight, his spend. He pulls his hands from Jaskier’s trousers, settles them on the small of his back instead, to forestall any movement. The skin contact feels good, keeps his mind buzzing, but no longer does it crowd out the salty stench of sex, or the way the cave echoes.

“Geralt will be so very cross with me when I tell him,” Jaskier says after a while.

Eskel can’t muster the energy for apprehension, and also there’s a wicked edge to Jaskier’s voice that belies how much he’s looking forward to the conversation.

“He’ll be very jealous of me, that I got to have you first,” he adds.

Ah yes, of course it was something competitive along those lines. Eskel only sighs. “You’re a menace.”

Jaskier hums happily, and kitten-licks Eskel’s neck that he’s burrowing his face into. “Rest assured, we’ll work hard so you can build up a tolerance.”

Eskel groans at the horrible line. Shivers at the suggestion of Geralt trying to out-do Jaskier when they meet next. Then he wraps his arms more securely around Jaskier’s body. Where his forearms move against Jaskier’s back, his skin is already starting to tingle again.

He thinks of all the things Jaskier has done today, has tolerated and offered. How little Eskel has given in return.

“Thank you,” he says, and these words do not stick in his throat like many others. “You’re perfect.”

Jaskier lifts his head a little to catch his gaze. His bright blue eyes are serious and soft. “Right back at you, my heart.” He seals it with another kiss.


End file.
